You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine
by Fudgepop543
Summary: Hulkeye. Clint and Bruce are captured and imporisoned together. Love and sacrafice abounds! Songfic. A bit of fluff, I guess, but angst. Angst everywhere. Rate T for language. I suck at rating almost as much a summaries.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, another hulkeye fic. This pairing has taken over my life right now. This is a songfic from the song "You Are My Sunshine", but sort of different. It's better if you play this while reading. (I listen to the song sung by Elizabeth Mitchell) I wrote it so it (hopefully) showed you what to imagine while listen to the song and lyrics. Okay, I'm rambling now. Sorry if it's OOC and full of mistakes. And long. Enjoy!  
********

_You are my sunshine/ My only sunshine_  
The two were thrown into the small cell, quite literally. Mid-air, Clint's training kicked in and he twisted around so that Bruce landed on top of him, a much softer landing than the concrete floor. Still, Bruce let out a small cry of pain when they landed, no matter how much Clint softened it. The archer could feel the blood on his fingertips when he instinctively reached up to keep Bruce from sliding off of his torso too quickly. Instead of helping him lay on the floor, he propped him into a sitting position, and eventually got him onto the single, small bed the jutted out from the wall. It wasn't much softer, but better than lying with the rats. Bruce was pale and he had broken out into a sweat, but didn't say a thing until he was settled. Clint patted him in the arm, opposed to touching his shoulder as that wouldn't do anybody any good.

"There. Better, huh?" he asked softly, trying not to frown. Bruce took in a slow, deep breath, trying to ease away the pain.

"Y-Yeah, thanks." He paused, feeling he just wasn't showing his gratitude enough. "A lot."

Clint grinned. "Only for you."

_You make me happy/When skies are grey_  
It had been a few days later, no sign of rescue, or any signs that their teammates had even survived. Although he didn't like thinking of the worse, Clint couldn't stop his mind from wondering to the possibilities, and most of them did not turn out well. He had tended to Bruce the best he could, but he still didn't know what they had put in the scientist that made it literally impossible for him to transform.

He must have been frowning deeper than he thought, because Bruce could obviously see it from his standing spot at the tiny window that revealed cloudy, dreary clouds as he called out his name gently.

"Clint. Come here." It wasn't an order, but a bit more than a suggestion, one Clint couldn't refuse. He walked back to the wounded doctor, who had managed to sit up and make room for him. Clint sat on his uninjured side, taking his hand distractedly.

"Hmm?" he replied. Bruce smiled, small with a bit of comfort and a bit of hope. It didn't make Clint smile yet, but it certainly rid him of his frown.

"You seemed like you needed a distraction. Don't look so upset, alright?" Bruce said softly, lifting his hand slightly and taking Clint's with it, making Clint's lips curve upwards.

_You'll never know, dear/How much I love you  
_He's told him he loved him. Of course he's told him, they've been together for ages. Sure, Clint was a bit more hesitant to reveal his feelings, and Bruce was the first one to tell him, he knew Clint loved him back. But, now that everything's gone to shit and his incapability and injury has left Clint to do everything, he feels he just hasn't made it clear how much he truly does. He was glad his was the hurt one, though, and not Clint, and would've taken a wound a million times worse if it meant Clint remained unscathed.

And now, as he watched Clint's chest rise and fall, he was glad he had at least a bit of time to spend with him. It was obvious things weren't going well, and to top it all off he couldn't even transform. But, his shoulder was slowly getting better (it wasn't as bad as Clint had gone on about, it only bled and hurt a lot) so he decided he had to count that as a plus. As he thought about everything Clint's done for him in the past few days, he found a string of words floating across his mind_. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…_ Aw, hell. If they were going to die soon, he might as well get it off if his chest.

"Thank you." He murmured to his sleeping partner. "I love you, and thank you, so, so much."

_Please don't take my sunshine away_  
"Bruce. Bruce, wake up, someone's coming over here." Clint quickly tapped Bruce's cheek. The urgency in his voice cleared his mind from sleep as he sat up quickly, ignoring the pinching twang of pain he received for such quick actions. It was true, four men were making their way up to the two heroes' cell, expression blank. They were huge, obviously enhanced with some sort of modified super-serum. The two men stood when they reached the door, tense as the door was slowly unlocked. They had no idea what was happening, but when it did, it was so quick it nearly didn't happen.

One of the men stepped in about halfway through the doorway, then quickly reached out and grabbed Bruce's arm, pulling him out with him. Bruce let out a sound of pain and surprise, trying to wrench his arm free but only increasing the pain in his shoulder. Clint darted after him, but there were more than one man for a reason. The two men grabbed one of Clint's arms each, pulling him back so he couldn't get to Bruce, who was being dragged away slowly, still fighting uselessly against the giant man. Clint could see from there that Bruce's wound had been reopened and was bleeding freshly again. He shouted out in rage and desperation.

"Stop it! You fuckers are hurting him! Let go, damn it!" His voice bounced about the walls, hitting his ears over and over again until it faded. Bruce was almost to a large door, and the fourth man had helped to take ahold of the scientist, making dragging him was easier and quicker.

"Clint!"

"Bruce! No, please, please, no!" Clint pulled again at his restrainers, but as he watched Bruce disappear behind the door, he went limp. Legs giving out, head falling to his chest, shoulders slumping forward, but he didn't pass out. It was pure defeat, days of pushed back grief and worry overrunning his senses as he finally accepted his downfall.

He was carried back to his original small cell, which seemed huge now that there was nobody else to occupy it, and dropped to the floor. He lied there for several minutes, knowing the men hadn't left. Finally, he sat up, voice broken, his posture signifying surrender.

"Where did you take him?" He wasn't expecting an answer, which was why is surprised him that one of them replied.

"Down to the lab, for some sound weapons the boss is testing."

Oh, God, no. Clint's heard of those before. "Will it kill him?"

"It might."

No, no, no. "Why him?"

The other man had left, leaving only Clint and the guy answering him. The archer didn't realize he had gotten up until his hands wrapped around the cold bars.

"Not entirely sure, but I reckon because he's the hurt one. I'm guessing boss wants to keep you for later for a bigger experiment or something."

"Why are you answering me?" The large, bulky man shrugged, almost honestly.

"Seeing as your friends haven't showed up and you're not going anywhere, there's really no harm in it."

Clint nodded, seeing the logic behind the answer, but at a loss for words. He leaned on the cold metal, letting his forehead thump onto it, letting out a long breath. He couldn't cry. Not in front of him.

"Thanks for answering me, but you and your buddies can still go to hell and burn from the inside out in the slowest most agonizing way possible."

He waited until the man was gone until he broke down and sobbed.

_The other night, dear/As I lay sleeping/I dreamt I held you/In my arms_  
Everything's perfect, he thought as he slid his arms around Bruce's waist. They were on their bed at Avengers Tower, the room completely silent. Clint placed a soft kiss to the side of Bruce's neck, then next to his jaw, nearly under his ear, earning a slight chuckle from the scientist. His soft purple shirt brushed against Clint's cheek as he settled his chin on Bruce's shoulder, smiling as he watched him try to twist his head and look at Clint. When Bruce let out a small, playful noise of frustration, Clint decided to stop teasing him and lifted his head, moving so Bruce could easily look at him.

"Better?" he asked, smiling. Bruce rolled his eyes but pressed a quick kiss to Clint's cheek.

"Aw, shut it and kiss me." Clint happily agreed, mouth sliding across Bruce's cheek and stopping as his lips. They stayed like that for a while, but unfortunately the oxygen problem still hasn't been overcome, and they had to break apart for air. Clint was about to make a joke, probably an inappropriate one, but he noticed Bruce's expression. He was smiling, but looked miserable and sad.

"What's wrong?" Clint asked worriedly.

"Thank you. I love you, and thank you, so, so much."

Something washed over Clint, like a horrifying version of déjà vu. He's heard those words from Bruce before, the exact same tone, the exact same hurt, broken voice. Something wasn't right, something was terribly wrong. He began to turn fully to Bruce, but his hand brushed the scientist's shoulder, and he felt something. He looked down and saw blood covering his fingers, an open wound on Bruce's shoulder. He looked back up at Bruce, who lack back at him with sad eyes.

"This is a dream, isn't it?"

Bruce only nodded, and everything faded into a painful, cold black.

_But when I woke, dear/I was mistaken/So I hung my head and cried  
_Clint woke with a start, jerking upwards and sitting up quickly. The action earned him a scraped elbow as it dragged across the concrete floor. (He still refused to sleep on the bed. Even if Bruce was gone, it was still Bruce's spot.) He hissed in surprise as the pain pricked at him, pulling back his arm, using his other hand to prop himself up. He sat there in the middle of the cell, hunched over, legs in a loose crisscross, until the dream finally came rushing back to him, the memories of it as clear as if it had actually happened.

The sobs started like small coughs, rattling his chest, quick and dry. He took a long breath, trying to stifle a long, whining cry, but as he exhaled he choked up on it, and it burst from his throat, tears pooling in his eyes. He hated crying, how vulnerable it made him feel, but he really couldn't stop once he started. He pulled up his shirt and buried his face in the neck of it, trying to stifle the noise. He cried until he felt sick, eyes burning with the salt from his drying tears. He felt weak and pathetic for crying, he wasn't sure the last time had actually allowed himself to. He could see Natasha's disappointed face, telling him that crying was for children. That love was for children.

If anything of the things she says is true, then Clint is really a child at heart. He loved, he cried, he was only human, and humans can only take so much loss, and right then, he had lost everything. Forget the 'you have to be strong' shit, he couldn't, he just didn't have it in him. He wanted to, he wanted to stop crying and take his imprisonment silently and bravely, but he couldn't, because everything hurt and he just wanted Bruce back.

_/Instrumental/_  
It had felt like hours, but in truth his tears had lasted no more than a minute. He remained settled on the floor, staring at it like he could burn a hole through it, thinking. He needed a plan. Anything, even a stupid, foolish, bound-to-fail plan would do. His mind was racing, thinking of any means of escape, even if it meant _he_ didn't make it out and a certain scientist did. He thought logically, trying to recall anything he's noticed or anything he's heard that would give him the slightest idea or clue.

Blue eyes, half-closed and staring at the floor, snapped up to look at the door, eyelids open wide with a plan. He got up slowly, legs a bit wobbly from lack of food and water, but made his way to the door, leaning almost casually against the bars. His plan was already forming in his head, and it seemed so simple, he was a bit disappointed in himself that he didn't think of it earlier. His senses were still as sharp as ever, so he instinctively knew that every thirty minutes or so a guard (or whatever the hell they are, he has no idea) would walked through this section of the building. He picked that up the first day he and Bruce were there. He wasn't entirely sure, but he was confident it was nearly that time.

Any other person would be feeling cold dread at what he was about to do. Not Clint, just steely determination as he heard a door open and the lazy footsteps of a guard. He slipped his hand between the bars, getting the man's attention. "Hey, come here." He hissed. The large man (probably another enhanced guy) looked irritated and confused, but approached Clint anyway.

"Listen, I'm not going to try and escape, but I need to know something. That man that your team or whatever came and got yesterday, do you know who I'm talking about?" Clint asked quickly. The guy frowned at him, but Clint could tell he knew exactly who he was talking about.

"We only picked up two people, and only one guy, so yes. Why?" he asked snappily. Clint prepared himself for the worst.

"Is he still alive?" He dreaded the answer, and if Bruce was in fact dead, he didn't know what he'd do. But everything seemed better when the man nodded quickly. Clint had to keep himself from smiling.

"Okay. Okay. I have a deal to make with you. If you let him out, put him back in here, in the cell, you can take me in for the testing instead." He wasn't even scared. He was only desperate. Still, he felt a shiver run down his back when the guard smiled a knowing, cruel smile. "Oh, you want to save your boyfriend, do you?"

Clint nodded. "Yes, I do, okay? It's a damn good offer if you ask me. He's hurt. He might not react to the thingy-ma-bobs the same as a healthier person like me would, and that could really fuck up your results and shit."

Clint was the one smiling when he saw realization dawn on the man. The guy wasn't stupid; if something goes wrong, then the boss gets angry, and if the boss gets angry they're all in for hell. It was truly logical, and that was why the man looked back at Clint, an irritated look that said "you win".

"Fine. I'll go see if the boss would be up for a trade. But you will not fight or that curly-headed bitch of yours is dead."

Clint clenched his jaw. "Fuck you, but okay. You've got a deal, but you will treat him well when he's in here, make sure he heals okay." As the man walked away towards the same door they took Bruce into, Clint heard his response. "Can't promise you that."  
****

It was only a few minutes later when the man returned, this time with two other men behind him, leading a very familiar figure between them. Clint stiffened, ready to keep his end of the deal; no fighting, just pure cooperation. It was obvious Bruce had no idea what was happen, for he was glancing around nervously, eye brows furrowed in confusion. Clint watched him glance his way, eyes widening as the door was unlocked and he was thrown in.

It was a small cell already, so there really was no room for stumbling about. Bruce quickly wrapped his arms around Clint, who did the same. "Clint, oh God, are you okay? Do you know what's going on?" he nearly gasped. Clint buried his face in Bruce's matted hair, making sure not to touch his shoulder. He shot the man a glare that told them to have a moment.

"I traded." Clint responded. Bruce pulled back, eyes full of confusion. "What?" Clint was about to explain, break it to him slowly, when he felt hands grab at his arms, pulling him back. It was slow, so he quickly leaned forward and caught Bruce in a kiss before he was out of reach.

"I'm going down there, not you. You'll be okay now, I promise." Clint said quickly. He was so caught up that he couldn't walk backwards fast enough and the heels of his dirty boots were scuffing along the floor as he was manually dragged out of the cell, the door quickly shut and locked after he exited it. Bruce only stared, wide-eyed in shock. "What? N-No!" he protested as Clint neared the door that lead to his defeat. Clint couldn't help but smile. It was bitter, but triumphant and calm. He had completed his last mission, and that was to keep Bruce safe.

Just before he reached the door, he called out, as casual and calm as if simply leaving to go to the store; "Bye, I love you!"

And then the door was shut.

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine; you make me happy when skies are gray_

_You'll never know, dear, how much I love you_

_Please don't take my sunshine away; please don't take my sunshine away_

_Please don't take my sunshine away_


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, since I got some reviews saying that some people enjoyed this story, I've decided to continue! (Not to mention it's really fun writing these. 3) This chapter is full of Clint!whump… Because of reasons that involve a suggestion from a reviewer. (**Just a quick reminder; the main torture weapons being used in this story are sound weapons. I watched a show about how some people designed sound weapons to where you can't hear it but it'll do you a great deal of pain and damage. That was a while ago, though, so I'm sort of winging it.)** I hope you guys like this as much as you liked the other!  
*****

The echoes of the slamming door were still bouncing off the walls. Bruce was pressed against the bars, hand still extended, eyes wide, and the ghost of Clint's kiss still tingling on his mouth. His breathing was more like panicked panting, whole body shaking. The wound on his shoulder had taken a good jostling, but the adrenaline was still coursing through him and he could barely feel a thing. He hadn't wanted this- _anything_ but this- when he was taken down to that horrid lab. Had he known what was happing when he was escorted back to the cell, he would've refused with everything he had.

Bruce pulled back from the bars, running a hand over his hair, hating the way he was shaking. He felt sick to his stomach, but the anger bubbling within him was quickly covering that. It was pointless to get angry, though; whatever the hell he was injected with didn't seem to be wearing off. He's tried and tried, but it was impossible, and that only made him angrier.

"Damn it!" he shouted into the empty halls. He should've known Clint would do something like that, he should've asked what was happening sooner, he was a scientist for the love of god, he should've _known!_

A small noise of distress and grief escaped Bruce's throat. He locked his hands together on his forehead and leaned his head back, swallowing that thick, painful lump in his throat as he stepped back, towards the back wall of the cell. His eyes were hot with tears, tears of fear and frustration and hate and shock and everything in between. He eventually hit the brick wall, sliding down it until his bottom hit the floor, his knees pulled up. "God damn it, Clint, why didn't I fucking _know_?" he choked. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, the wound on his shoulder starting to throb. Dried specks of blood still clung to the corners of his mouth and the collar of his shirt. It made sense now; they had given something to clean up his blood with so that Clint wouldn't see and go ballistic.

The one time Bruce wanted the Hulk, he couldn't have him. How ironic.

******  
Clint didn't have time to preserve the last image of Bruce, for as soon as the door was shut, he was dragged down a set of stone stairs and through an eerie hallway. It seemed cliché, but at least it didn't have torches for lighting. Instead, they had a light bulb swinging from a cord every few yards. Clint had recomposed himself, now walking willingly between his 'escorts'. He concentrated on the thudding of his boots to rid his mind of the confused and broken shouts of Bruce. _In time_, he thought determinedly, _he'll get over me. He'll be fine._

He looked up; they had reached an oddly high-tech-looking door. The shorter (not by much, though) man stepped forward, typing something into a keypad that would be put to shame by something back at the Avenger Tower. The door slid open, and Clint couldn't help but marvel at what lied inside.

Everything seemed so… shiny. That was the only way to put it. There were rows of tables full of customized bullets and guns. Clint didn't have time to look over them all before he was pushed forward. He glared at the one responsible. "I'm going, calm the fuck down." He snapped at him. Just because they let him trade didn't mean he liked them any more than before. They still took Bruce in here in the first place.

He then thought okay, maybe that wasn't such a great idea, especially after a large, beefy hand landed across his face in a slap. Lesson learned; slaps hurt a lot more when they're from a super-enhanced body-builder. He bit back a frustrated noise and carried on until they had passed nearly every sinister-looking mechanism. Suddenly, they stopped, Clint taking a few steps before he realized he needed to cease walking. He turned to the two men, looking up at them confusedly, eyebrows furrowed. He made sure to keep his snappiness and cursing to a minimum. "What'd you stop for?" The two men looked down at him, amused smirks on their faces. Clint was so caught up (not to mention he wasn't even bothering paying attention) he didn't hear the light footsteps behind him until a sharp crack rung in his ears and he fell to the ground, unconscious. The two men leaned over him, casting shadows across his still-tense face.

*****  
All he felt was cold. Cold air blowing on his face, solid cold wrapped around his wrist and probably his ankles, but he couldn't feel through his now-filthy jeans and boots. Instead of like in the movies, he didn't wake up slowly, eyes fluttering, no; he instinctively tried to sit up, eyes snapping open. He drew in a quick but silent breath, the black of his vision quickly disappearing. He didn't remember getting here, and it certainly didn't look like what he last saw around him, but he was sure he knew what was happening. He looked to the side, but saw nothing. He looked everywhere one could while cuffed to a table, but saw nothing but walls and the tall, blocky device in front of him. Quickly, his sharp eyes picked up a camera installed above it and he narrowed his eyes at his, knowing he was being watched. There was a pause, filled with the rustle of Clint as he searched for some form of human life. Suddenly, a loud beep caught him off guard, pulling his attention to in front of him, where a screen had emerged from the side of the large mechanism. The machine itself was like a giant metal box with huge, dome-like speakers aimed directly for him. He knew better to call it a machine; it was a weapon.

The screen blinked black and white a few times before words were suddenly typed out on it, as if someone somewhere was typing them in manually directly to be shown on the screen. Clint read them as fast as they appeared.  
"_SOUND-WEAPONS TESTING IS ABOUT TO BEGIN ON SUBJECT NUMBER: #404B" _  
Clint blinked, glancing back at the giant speakers facing him. He was a bit nervous, for the size itself felt intimidating, but told himself to suck it up. Bruce faced these for nearly twenty-four hours, and, besides, Clint was trained to withstand any form of torture thrown at him. The thought of Bruce made him smile, a determined, fierce one. The more pain, the better it felt to know he saves Bruce from this. The screen blinked for a few more seconds.

"_SUBJECT #404B, PREPARE FOR TESTING IN…"  
"…3…"  
"…2…"  
"…1."_

At first, it seemed nothing happened. Clint's expert ears could hear soft, faint clicks of gears and switches, but neither actual sound nor feeling overcame him. He was about to move his head to look around again when he felt it. No sound, but at first it was just unpleasant, then something crept into him and he began coughing. His lungs or throat didn't feel the least bit clogged or scratchy, but he couldn't stop the ragged coughing that shook his body. Eventually it became painful, for his hacking was so forceful. It was difficult to catch any air at all, his eyes watering, but he's faced much, much worse. It was surprising, yes, but the affects weren't anything that would bring him down.

But then the headache started. It crept up, starting at the back of his head and spread until it felt like it was behind his eyes. It was worse than a headache, and in no more than twenty seconds it became beyond a migraine or anything he's ever felt. Not a drop of sound escaping those speakers, but Clint squeezed his eyes shut in pain. It wasn't so much as it was _too much_, it was just the pain was unique and unexpected. (Migraines and headaches were one thing SHIELD couldn't replicate, unless they struck him in the head, and they couldn't risk damaging him like that; if something happened to his vision, he was useless to them. He had to learn to deal with them from the occasional hangover and concussions in battle.) He didn't notice the dribble of blood running from his nose until he took in a breath and got a mouthful of the scarlet liquid.

For a few foolish seconds, Clint thought that was all; he couldn't have been more wrong. His insides suddenly felt like they were on fire, twisting agonizingly. If it wasn't for the fact Clint hadn't eaten in days, he probably would've been sick. A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead, teeth bared, stained with his own blood. The fire shifted, and he then felt like giant stones were grinding his insides. A hundred of different metaphors could have been used and it still wouldn't have covered the different kinds of pain Clint felt, each one shifting higher and higher until he could barely draw in a breath. The pain was nearly worse than anything he's ever felt; it easily topped a gunshot wound, and broken bones were dwarfed by this. Even that horrid time with Natasha, in… damn it, he couldn't even remember to breathe, let alone recall a mission. He didn't scream, he couldn't, not enough air was in his lungs for that. The pain topped anything he's ever felt, in his entire life of working for SHIELD, in his entire history of screwy missions that ended up with bullet wounds or broken bones or torture.

Just before his vision wavered and he fell into the best unconsciousness he's ever been in, a thought managed to slip its way through the thick layer of pain and hurt, and his eyes widened before slowly drifting shut.

_Dear God, is this what Bruce felt?_

******  
Okay! I hope they aren't too OOC. I decided to split my current writing into two chapters, so you won't have to wait very long for the next one, although this one's short. If it wasn't clear enough, I tried not to make Clint submit to the pain right away- he _is_ a highly-trained SHIELD agent. He isn't a damsel in distress; he wouldn't start writhing right away. Being slapped and hit are nothing to him. Sorry for any typos; spell check can only catch so much and I'm certainly not Hawkeye when it comes to catching mistakes.


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